Trials
by Storymaster Caith
Summary: To become Kazekage, you are elected by a council. To become Troupe Master, you bleed. Kankurocentric multi-chapter.
1. Chill in the Wind

**Trials**

_** Part 1: Chill in the Wind**_

When Princess Temari, the Iron Fan, came in from her final watch, she sat down beside her Kazekage (who was also her brother) and told him, "there's a chill in the wind."

She ran her fingers through her hair, loosening sand grains which dribbled neatly onto the floor and then into a pile. She propped up her fan on the village leader's mahogany desk and looked out over the cone-shaped houses with eyes too old for a woman so young.

The Kazekage looked at her, then out at the rising sun as it spread over his domain. He stood to come beside her. Shoulder to shoulder, they watched the endless horizon.

"A chill?" the Kazekage asked, and his voice was even, cool and dry. His sister nodded and that was that. They continued to stand, two sentinels, watching the barest of movements as the Village Hidden in the Sand began to wake up.

As a single mind, they began to move- to break the moment, and go on with the day. But at the last second, as their combined breath came in and they began to shift, a dissonant chord caught their attention, a strange note in the soft breath of wind.

Far below, in the empty main courtyard of the citadel, there was a crow, and a man. The man tilted his head in a way not unlike cats, offering one arm as though in prayer, or perhaps salvation. Head to toe he was dressed in black and he was the dissonance, the strangeness to the wind. The bird hovered over the man and both could see that there was a note, tied to its leg.

Nothing new; just a message from the Playhouse, received by a puppeteer, who was extending one long hand to grasp the parchment between agile gloved fingers and at that moment, that precise moment, Gaara Sabaku- Kazekage of the village of Sunakagure-no-Sato- felt his sister's chill.

Both knew that a change had come.

And nothing would be the same.

_**A/N: I know, I know, what business have I to start another multi-chapter when Coping isn't even finished yet, but this demanded that it be written. The next chapters, obviously, will be longer. For Jonyuu, who wished to know more. Cookies for anyone who recognizes the Caithworld Suna superstition.  
**_


	2. The Play

**Part 2: The Play**

When the crow came, he wasn't surprised.

It appeared like a blot of darkness, crossing the dawn as though fleeing from the rising sun, and as it came spiraling down He extended his hand as though sinking in ice cold water, seeing tunnels and spirals and bright dots of light. The bird landed with ease on his arm, squeezing tightly, trained for painted faces.

The parchment was crimson, just barely, just tinged. An eye unsure would never see it, an enemy looking would never find it.

He unrolled the paper and read and felt, somehow, as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. It was then that he looked up and saw their faces in the window but doubted that they saw him, not really.

And he felt something sharp and maybe cold which traveled his fingers and brushed at his throat and felt remarkably like fear.

He deftly flipped the paper over, removing a field pencil from his waist. For perhaps a moment, or even a beat of a moment, he felt hesitation rise in his throat. He slid one eye shut, winking down at the paper and writing, in small and unreadable symbols, _I accept. _And underneath it, _Crow. _

And perhaps he could feel the chill, though the wind, like sunlight, belonged to his siblings alone; but it was different to him, a sort of tight anticipation, and he said to himself, watching the crow grow smaller in the distance, flying to the place where the banners flapped high,

"Let the play begin."

_**A/N: then again, maybe I lied. I think this might be the format for the rest of the story, this flash fiction kind of style.**_


	3. Laws

**Part 3: Laws**

_Whosoever wears the paint of the actor shall become the actor, and none without shall dare. _

The design is simple, red-on-white instead of purple because in this contest, blood doesn't matter. Three swoops, climbing down the cheeks, starting from the thick lines around his eyes. Two trails on either side of his lips. It is perfect.

He has had a long time to practice 'Crow'.

_Whenever a warrior of the playhouse falls, his name shall be passed, one hand to another and each shall pay homage to the one that came before.. _

He has the distinction of being the first Crow, because Scorpion had a puppet before him; and Scorpion did not take that name with him when he left, not really.

It is a cursed name, now. There will never be another.

He does not know if he will pass on Crow when he dies, though he assumes he will, to some scared genin who whispers nothings into dead wooden ears.

Crows are not solitary creatures.

_Perform in silence. Fight in silence. Die in silence. _

The only sound in the room is the shifting of fabric and even that is muted to less than a rustle, perhaps the ghost of cotton rubbing on cotton. The gloves he pulls on are black, as black as the suit, the mask, the hat.

For this trial, there is no hitai-ate.

_Stay to dark places. Be ever a shadow, and to those who know you let them know only that face which you wear while performing. _

The blank expression is careful, one he has known all his life. He perfected it even before he received paint, the moment they told him his mother was dead, the moment he knew true despair.

Looking at the mirror, he thought, if his face were clean, he would look much like Gaara.

_See far beneath the underneath. _

He counts to seven, breathes each word, lights the stick of incense in the shrine his siblings do not know he has. He appeals to new ghosts, old gods, and his mother.

His father's name, he never speaks. Not even when the whisp of him lingers outside the door. To speak would be an invitation.

Puppeteers are a suspicious lot.

_The show must go on. _

He pulls away from his reflection and heads for the door, opening it carefully and perhaps he mourns the moment it closes behind him. For he knows he will return, triumphant warrior or tragic hero, a changed man.

It is only a moment.

And then he is gone, through the long corridor and out into the night as the icy prongs of the desert's constant wind cut at his expressionless face.

Crow flies to meet his end.

_**A.N: these are just getting weirder and weirder. Ah, well. **_


End file.
